A Wild and Wicked Youth
by bluRaaven
Summary: Crowns do not make kings, no more than titles do heroes. Before legend came to life and his destiny as the Dragonborn was revealed, Wulf had been a lot of things: a thief, a guard, a killer, a lover, a friend and many more. But once, longer ago than he cares to admit to, there was just a child that had to grow up early in a world that was too big for a Nord boy from Bruma. BC part2
1. On a Dark Winter's Night

**Part two of the Blacktyde Chronicles** that start with 'Before the Storm' and continue with 'High Tide'.

NO previous knowledge of series/character needed! This is a short story about my Dragonborn's childhood, and could alernatively be read as part one of the BC.

* * *

On a dark winter's night snow was falling on the village of Wildeye in great white feathery puffs that stuck to every surface, filling cracks and crevices and rounding all corners. They coated the closed shutters of the wooden houses and covered trees and bushes in thick blankets that glittered softly whenever the swaying lantern's cone of light fell atop them.

Ra'Jira saw little of the beauty around her. Cloak drawn close around her tense, shivering shoulders the Khajiit shuddered with revulsion. She should have listened to her elders back when she had lived happily in the fairest of all countries of Nirn, Elsweyr, with her family. They had told her that in other countries water fell from the sky and she had laughed at the absurdity of such nonsense.

Living in a canyon in the Red Rock Desert had not prepared her for the first downpour of her life, mere four day's travel from her homeland's border. The Khajiit had almost turned back then and there, but the thought of being the entire clan's laughing stock had stopped her dead in her tracks. She had been warned, after all.

If anything was worse than rain, it was snow. Frozen water that came whirling towards the ground in deceivingly beautiful flocks that melted at the slightest touch, leaving a person drenched long after the snow was gone.

This was what Oblivion must be like; an ice-covered hell, a wasteland of endless white without colour, life or warmth. There was a saying that went with this country, one that Ra'Jira had never paid any heed to, but that she recalled at that moment. 'The only thing colder than Skyrim, the land of the Nords, were the people that inhabited it'.

Ra'Jira did not know how they could stand it; the biting wind that cut through all layers of clothing and the sheer temperature – and without a warm, thick pelt to boot. The Khajiit would have believed her fur to be a suitable protection against the cold, giving her an advantage that the Humans and Mer did not have. She had spurned their idea of dressing in clothes, only taking her shi'ari, a brightly dyed toga, for reasons of modesty.

A hundred miles further north she had bought her first dress made of rich wool, and not the flimsy fabric of her home. Before winter arrived a humbler (but much wiser for the experience) Ra'Jira had purchased shoes.

'Maybe it was the amount of drink that coursed through their blood that kept the Nords from freezing', the Khajiit mused and shook her head, smiling at her own thoughts.

Here she was, mewling like newborn kitten when she had not made it as far as Skyrim yet. No, for now this one's destination was merely Bruma, the northernmost of Cyrodiil's cities and home to Imperials and Nords alike. The travelling merchant's wares were colourful and exotic and caught many a person's eye. She hoped to make a fortune here, where the land was harsh and the life more so; dull and cheerless compared to her homeland. These people were starved for some gaudy trinkets and small objects of luxury.

Ra'Jira knew an opportunity when it presented itself. The trader was shrewd, she had to be. The White Paws were her clan and she was the matriarch's chosen daughter, which allowed her to use the honorary title to show her elevated status. But this Khajiit was no stranger to fighting either, the constant threat of bandit raids that her clan had to deal with made her a warrior despite her young age.

Names were no protection, Ra'Jira knew. Not in Elsweyr and not here. If anything, it only made life a little easier when she met others of her kind. The humans didn't care.

The guard at the gate did not care for her appearing after nightfall, either.

"This one was delayed by the snow," Ra'Jira explained. "This one is cold and hungry and would like nothing more than to sit by a warm fire. This one has wares to sell," she added in a seductive tone, making it clear that she was no beggar to be ignored and left outside the gates until dawn. After some further quibble a few coins changed their owner and the portcullis were pulled up and the Khajiit was allowed to pass.

The Jerall View Inn was expensive, but welcoming and well-kept and everything a tired traveller could wish for after a long day on the road.

oooo

In the morning Ra'Jira learned that her lodging's name had been chosen for a reason. She had slept until midday, enjoyed a hot meal and went for a stroll through what would be her home until winter turned to spring once more, allowing her to cross the mountains.

Outside all colour seemed to have bled from the world, leaving behind only black and white; a monotony was most calming and soothing to the eye. Everything was soft and blurry and even though it was mid-day a muted twilight lingered in the narrower alleys of the city. And above everything, the Jeralls loomed, a mountain range bigger than anything this Khajiit had seen before. It was moments like these when she truly was glad to have journeyed abroad despite the discomforts she had to face on a regular basis.

Bruma was a small city, and could be called such only because of the grand stone buildings and castle, otherwise nobody would have labelled it anything but a village, no matter whose count's behind warmed the throne. The further one ventured from the center the humbler the houses became. Wood replaced stone with straw roofs instead of shingles.

There were two mills and at least four carpenters in Bruma; the city's main trading goods being wood and stone. The woodcutters lived to the far right, close to the forest's edge and the miners', stonecutters' and masons' quarter was closest to the mountain. The castle looked dour and uninviting and was dark with soot. The cold must not become its current inhabitants.

It took some time and paperwork before Ra'Jira could set up her stall in the marketplace. By then she was familiar with many faces and called out to her customers by name, offering a bottle of scented water to one woman and a lovely piece of jewellery to a soon-to-be husband as a gift for his fiancée.

Life was good. The villagers – 'citizens' the Khajiit reminded herself – had quickly lost their suspicion of her. Ra'Jira knew how to be well-spoken and though they did not know the first thing about the cat folk's society, the others were impressed when she told them she was the daughter of a 'countess' herself, sent away to gather experience before she would lead her people. And honestly, who cared that she tweaked the truth a bit? It was as good a comparison as those barbarians would understand, anyway.

Over time, she had grown fond of them and their weird ideas – foolish concepts, as any Khajiit would have called them. Humans weren't so bad once you gave them a chance. And they had the most delicious fish dishes one could think of. It seemed unsurprising that Ra'Jira quickly befriended the fishmonger, whom she bought her dinner from almost daily. The Imperial woman's hair was short and curly and streaked with grey, but she was robust and strong, pushing her wheel-barrow through the streets with ease, crying out in praise of her wares.

Others might find the smell repellent, but the Khajiit's mouth began to water whenever she caught a whiff of fish. And these were caught every day by her husband and the cold and ice they lay upon kept them fresh.

She dodged a squealing pack of children that raced through the streets, slipping on the slick cobblestones and laughing. Ra'Jira smiled. The young ones were not different from kits, bundles of endless energy that wanted nothing but to play. They were fun to look at, the Imperial children so thickly bundled up in furs and cloaks until they were round with their arms sticking out at a weird angle, and had a waddle to their step that made them absolutely adorable. Rosy cheeks aglow and -

Something bumped into her, knocking the air out of the trader with a _whoosh_. The Khajiit managed to stay upright, waving her arms for balance, but her 'assailant' was knocked backwards, landing on his behind.

"Whoops," Ra'Jira chuckled and then she forgot to say anything else, mainly because of the boy sitting in front of her.

He had a somewhat dazed look on his face, a short, unruly mop of black hair that the wind had blown in all directions and the clearest, bluest eyes the merchant had seen outside of her own race. He was tall, but looked to be quite young. However, judging the age of human children was beyond this Khajiit's ability. She thought ten might be close, but that was only a rough guess.

Most noticeably though, the boy was dressed in clothes that were little more than rags. The pants were too big and had been rolled up several times, being held up only by a rough cord. The same was true of the shirt that was rumpled and not the cleanest and worn threadbare at the elbows. A sleeveless vest accompanied the outfit as well as shoes that were just leather rags wrapped around the foot. And that was it.

'He must be Nord', Ra'Jira realized and felt the bitter chill of this lovely winter day much more keenly all of a sudden. Anybody else would risk losing limbs to frostbite or outright catch their death.

"Who are you?" the boy asked, ripping he Khajiit out of her thoughts, eyes wide with wonder. He probably had never seen one of the cat people before.

"This one's name is Ra'Jira," the merchant replied kindly, reaching out to help him to his feet. "And you, young one?"

"I'm Wulf," the urchin replied, accepting her hand to pull himself up.

"Wulf," Ra'Jira repeated, rolling the unfamiliar name around. "Like a wolf?" she asked, thinking that the comparison would please the boy.

A long-suffering sigh was her answer. "Nu-uh. Like V-OO-L-F." Apparently she was not the only one to get it wrong. "It's short for Wulfryk," he explained.

The boy looked like he wanted to say more, but just then a girl interrupted them, shouting loud enough to drown out everything else in the street. "Come on, Wulf! Gaio found the haunted shack and Matus says he can climb the Nose better than you!"

The lad had important business to attend to, the Khajiit saw, breaking into a smile. "Go on," she urged and gave into the compulsion to ruffle his dark hair. The boy jerked away like burned and dove under her hand, spinning out of reach before the merchant could blink an eye. But still he looked at her in wonder, if with no small amount of suspicion.

"This one will be at the market, if you wish to come by," Ra'Jira told him, unsure of what had just happened and watched him run after the other children. She was sure she would see him again.

oooo

"Ah, here you are, I wasn't sure you'd come," Lysa greeted her friend with her usual loud voice and friendly smile.

"This one just bumped into one of the playing children." Ra'Jira gave the details to the other woman while she browsed for today's dinner. "Or he into me. Errr, Wulf, that was it." There, that trout looked absolutely delicious.

"Who?" the fishmonger asked "Oh." Her tone had grown cool suddenly and it made the Khajiit look up. "That would be Garmr's bastard. Useless scoundrel, that one. Chops wood and takes the one or other job here and there. Don't know where he gets all the money from that he spends on drink. That brat of his won't turn out any better, mark my words. If you want some good advice; stay away from them. They're trouble."

Now if that didn't pique one's curiosity, Ra'Jira did not know what did.

oooo

Her young friend came to visit her on the next day. There were few people out on the streets today and she welcomed some company and livening up of what otherwise would have been quite a slow and tedious day.

"Good morning," the merchant greeted him, trying not to flinch at his clothing – or the lack thereof. He was dressed exactly the same as yesterday. "How was the climbing?" she asked with polite interest.

"Boring," Wulf replied with a yawn. "Matus is a shit climber. He only did it to impress Gloria anyway, and he didn't even make it _halfway_ up."

"Hmm," the trader hummed. "And you are better, yes?"

She wanted to indulge him, but the boy puffed up with pride at her words. "Sure I am! See that tower?" he asked, pointing in the direction he wanted the merchant to look. "I climbed it, once," Wulf boasted with a wide smile.

"Of course." Ra'Jira responded with evident disbelief.

"You can ask the guards if you don't believe me," the boy challenged her.

That was odd. "What do the guards have to do with it, Ra'Jira wonders?"

The answer came swiftly, accompanied by an even wider grin than before. "They were chasing me."

"Why?" If she sounded suspicious now, she could not help it.

"Turns out we're not allowed to climb the palace walls," Wulf finished with another shrug.

Ra'Jira laughed, delighted. This little one was entertaining. "Did you know the Khajiit are the best climbers there are?" she enquired, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Really?" Young Wulfryk looked sceptical, but intrigued.

"Yes. Look." The trader flexed her inhuman hands, and usually hidden claws slid out.

The look on the boy's face certainly was worth showing off a bit. "Wow," he gasped, openly staring now. "Are they real?"

"Very real," Ra'Jira confirmed. "And very sharp." She let the claws retreat again, feeling snug.

"Is that what you are?" Wulf asked after a moment's thought "A – a- Kha – Khatsheed?" The way he pronounced it made it sound like 'cat shit'.

"That's Khajiit," she corrected him until he got it right. He smiled, pleased with the praise he got when he finally managed to pronounce the unfamiliar word. There was a loud, growling sound that Ra'Jira realized was coming from the boy's stomach. "Hungry?" she asked. "This one has smelt meat pies by Jana's stall." She counted out some coins and handed them to the surprised boy. "Buy enough for two," the Khajiit reminded him not unkindly.

It was only a few coppers and it wouldn't hurt her much if he ran off with them. Let it be a test.

But the urchin returned, and quickly enough that the food was still hot and steaming in the chilly winter air.

Ra'Jira quite enjoyed the company of her young friend. She still caught him staring and once he warmed up a bit there was no end to his questions, but she did not mind answering those. "Where was she from? Were there other cat-people in Elsewhere? What is a desert? Did she eat mice?" And, finally, very shyly, "Could he pet her?"

Ra'Jira generously allowed him to stroke one furry arm, because he seemed genuinely curious and absolutely fascinated by her. It was a thing seldom found, such open-mindedness and from what she knew, rather unusual for his kinsmen.

They talked so much, that the pies lasted for a while, but when the merchant saw the boy's longing gaze, she relinquished her other half. She was repaid by the most sincere look of gratitude she had ever seen.

None of them noticed the approach of the other woman until she was upon them and loudly cleared her throat to get their attention.

"Eating pie are we, eh? Where did you get that from?" she whined, the words directed not at the merchant, but her young companion. The high-pitched, nasal tone was violating this Khajiiti's ears and she almost responded by asking the woman to move on, but somebody beat her to it.

"That's none of your business, you old hag," the boy shot back without batting an eyelash at insulting an elder.

'Oh, this is delicious', Ra'Jira thought, leaning back and enjoying he show. If any of her siblings behaved like this towards one of the other clan members, her mother would have tanned their hides. But the young one was not one of the kits and Vinicia was one of those snobbish people that looked down on everybody else. She had even tried to run the Khajiit out of business by badmouthing her. She deserved everything she got, and more.

oooo

"I heard Vinicia complain to her husband today." Ilana worked at the bakery and paid her friend a visit, helping her pack and carry her goods. "She looked furious. Did she pester you again, dear?"

"She did, briefly. Young Wulf ran her off," Ra'Jira replied, smirking in satisfaction despite the fact that today's business had been practically nonexistent. That boy had quite a dirty mouth on him.

"Wulfryk?" Ilana repeated. "Garmr's son?" She sounded almost as unhappy as Lysa had. "You watch yourself, he's a wild one," the baker counselled after a moment's thought.

"Wild? - How?" the Khajiit wanted to know. Wild meant enjoying life. Wild was good. "Besides, he seemed rather nice," she countered.

"Oh yes, he can be," Ilana laughed. "The loveliest angel with the saddest eyes you'll ever see. Don't fall for it; it's only for show. That boy's a rascal, alright. And there were several incidents with the other children... "

"Why don't you tell me more?" Ra'Jira proposed "Over dinner and a mug of mead?" She had grown quite fond of the sweet drink and friends deserved being spoiled every once in a while. An offer like this could not be refused and together the two stored away the merchant's goods before jogging over to the inn, hoods drawn up to prevent the whirling flakes of snow from getting into their hair and behind their collars.

As it turned out the 'incidents', as Ilana had referred to them, had stirred up half of Bruma. Parents no longer wanted their children to play with 'Garmr's bastard', as Wulf was commonly labelled. Something about it did not sit right with Ra'Jira; it wasn't like one could choose one's own parents. It seemed foolish to blame the child for any shortcomings of his sire. But it wasn't only his ancestry they found fault with; it was also the boy's own behaviour.

"He was picked on by the older children," Ilana explained after they had eaten and were now nursing mugs of hot mead. "They chased him and threw snowballs at him. So he challenged them to a snowball fight. Only, his 'snowballs' were rocks covered in snow. Some of the children were injured badly; Flavius has a scar across his entire forehead and almost lost an eye."

Ra'Jira nodded. She had seen the child with the scar. He had claimed he had been attacked by a wolf outside of the city. Now it sounded like it had been more like a wild Wulf. She did not laugh though, knowing that the baker would not understand the source of her amusement. It was good to know her friend knew how to defend himself. In the end, one always had only oneself to rely upon. A hard-learned lesson for most.

Ilana continued, oblivious to the thoughts of her Khajiit friend. "That was last year. This summer he punched Clevitia's boy, and knocked out his two front teeth. The brat was a bully and probably deserved it, but still. That Wulfryk has a nasty streak. The other children his age are scared of him and their families are, too."

"This one saw him running with playmates, surely they cannot be very concerned," the trader countered.

"Yes, yes," the other woman waved the merchant's reasoning aside. "They seem drawn to him like moths to light. Children can be cruel. Maybe he wants to belong, but often they make fun of him because of his lack of parents. At the same time they admire and envy him because he can do what he wants all day long."

Her words made sense, Ra'Jira saw the truth of them. It wouldn't be good for a boy of his age, all this freedom and lack of discipline. Maybe she could talk to him the next time they met.

Ilana was toying with the now empty mug, twirling it on the table. A crease appeared between her eyebrows and she sighed, put the tankard down and sighed. "I should warn you," the baker finally voiced what was on her mind. "He steals."

"Does he?" The Khajiit's ears perked up. Humans and Mer had a very weird understanding of property and she had been taught by her mother at length that thievery was a grave offence and that borrowing without question also counted as such. Ridiculous, but that's how it was. If she did not want to land in jail or lose a few fingers she had to play by the rules.

"Yes, small things. Food mostly. It's... well, everybody knows."

Interesting. Could it be that these people were not quite as stiff and law-abiding as she had believed? "So, when he snatches something you look the other way," Ra'Jira ventured, cautiously.

"Exactly," Ilana, said, relieved that her friend understood and did not judge. The baker was by all means ignorant of the laws and customs of Elsweyr, otherwise she would not have worried at all. "It's not like he does us any real harm. I mean, did you see the state he is in? It's obvious he doesn't get enough to eat at home."

Yes, the Khajiit remembered the hungry look on Wulf's face and felt really glad to have shared her pie with him. It cost her almost nothing and it had seemed to mean the word to him.

Ilana carried on, not quite finished. "People tried to help, you know? This is a community and we help each other. It wasn't so bad at first, Garmr worked hard to make a living for them both. But they lost it all when he became a drunk. A few generous souls once tried to get some things together for the boy. His father ran them off, screaming that he didn't need their charity." She shuddered. "Terrible man, that one."

Her words reminded Ra'Jira of something she had seen earlier. "Does he beat him?" she asked. "What about his mother?"

"I don't think so; boy never shows any signs of abuse." The baker appeared neither particularly upset nor interested. "Only, he is on his own a lot. I feel sorry for him, you know?" Ilana confessed quietly. "I remember when they arrived in Bruma; just Garmr and the boy, we do not know about his mother. But now all his father does anymore is drink and the boy runs wild."

It was not a pleasant way to end a conversation and so Ra'Jira steered their talk into another direction. An hour later her friend excused herself. It had been a long day for her and the next one began before sunup. They walked together for a while, until the women headed in different directions, each to her home. The Khajiit had a small hut that she had already prepaid the rent for; she still liked to eat at the inn from time to time, but staying there would have emptied her coin purse faster than a band of Black Tail Brigands.

The snow crunched beneath her shoe-clad feet and though the merchant feared they might make her soft, she was thankful that the humans had invented them. After a while, her ears picked up another sound. Footsteps, light and soft that fell almost perfectly in time with her own. The dark alley was deserted with no patrolling guards in sight. But the night was the Khajiit's friend, with her sharp eyes she had an advantage over any potential mugger.

"Ra'Jira can hear you," Ra'Jira hissed, earl flattening while her hand went to the knife at the small of her back. Claws were good, but solid steel was better.

A curse in Nord came as an answer. Seconds later, a familiar figure stepped out of the next intersecting street. The trader whistled with surprise; the boy was good to have gotten this close without her noticing before. Every Khajiit mother would have been proud for her young one to be as stealthy as a shadow.

"Your legs are too short to keep stride with a grown-up," the merchant told a Wulf who was sulking at being detected. "What are you doing out at this hour?" she asked when he had caught up to her.

"Same as you," came the vague answer, accompanied by a toe being scraped through the snow.

"You don't know what I'm doing," Ra'Jira laughed. Except for taking a walk in the dark and he was right; they were indeed both doing just that. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" she asked the boy, after he just trudged after her in silence.

"Nope."

"Won't you be missed at home?" the merchant probed again. From what everybody had said, the last thing she wanted was a nightly run-in with that Garmr. "It's quite late."

"Nope. Faðir doesn't care."

His nonchalant attitude only empathized all Ilana had said this evening. The Khajiit decided it would be rude of her to pry further. They walked together to the house that was hers for the winter.

"You live here?" Wulf asked, curious once more. His surly mood had blown over and he was all excitement again.

"Only until spring. Then Ra'Jira has to travel on. There are many distant lands this one has not yet seen."

"I'm going to travel when I'm grown up," Wulf declared and the Khajiit was sure it was a decision he had felled this very moment. For his sake, she hoped that he would not spend his life stuck here.

oooo

Ra'Jira saw more of her young friend as the winter passed on. Often he visited her at the market, though he was not welcome there, the other vendors always weary of his sticky fingers. A few times he was running with the other children, but Ilana had been right; mostly he was on his own. It didn't seem to bother him.

Today, it was market day and the main square was particularly busy. In Cyrodiil, so one journeyman had told her, Loredas was the designated market day. It did not surprise the Khajiit at all that the Imperials had laws (and probably charts, predictions and probably even divine prophecies) about which day appeared to be the most suited and lucrative for selling wares. Like all the other vendors, she cried in praise of her wares and many customers stopped by her stall. The gaudy, colourful trinkets were exactly what was needed to cheer up a cold winter day and they drew the eye like nothing else.

Out of the corner of her eyes Ra'Jira observed Wulfryk. The children had used stones to draw shapes on the cobblestones, and he was jumping over them, lost in his solitary game. But every now and then his head would shoot up and he would disappear into the crowd for a couple of heartbeats, only to reappear again somewhere else and to go back to playing.

Around midday a tall, gaunt baker accused him of nabbing one of his snowberry tarts, angrily stomped over to the boy and demanded he turn out his pockets. The urchin did, and with no small amount of protest, only for them to be empty. Every single one.

Smart boy, not to keep the stolen goods on his person, Ra'Jira grinned, increasingly impressed with the boy. He should have been born in Elsweyr.

Suddenly Wulf pointed behind the still arguing baker with a loud shout. "Look!" The man turned and realized that he never should have left his stall unattended. An entire gaggle of giggling children had snuck up and were raiding his goods. Wulfryk used the distraction to break free of the tall man's grasp and ran through the crowd, nimbly darting around (and, in one case, beneath) the busy buyers. He reached the stand first and made off with a tart in each hand, the baker cursing him and the other rascals on the top of his lungs, face red and blotched.

Who would have thought that this Bruma could be such an exciting, fun place?

Early mid-afternoon, Ra'Jira's young friend appeared behind her stall. He had an incriminating smudge of syrup on his chin and nose. She welcomed the boy with a warm smile and offered him the stump that was her seat, as well as a warm pelt to wrap himself in. She could not stand to look at his poor clothes.

"This one thinks that hawker got what he deserved," she mused, half to herself and half to the boy sitting beside her.

"He was stupid and slow," Wulf answered.

The Khajiit did not answer. He had given voice to her thoughts, exactly. "Where are your other things?" she asked instead.

She was given a wide-eyed and innocent look. "What other things?" He sounded so sincere, she almost believed him.

"The ones you have been hoarding since morning," Ra'Jira replied. "Unless they are well hidden I would get them somewhere safe before somebody else finds them." He still had much to learn.

"Uhh... " This was obviously not the reaction Wulf usually got. "Alright." He jumped up and left, handing her back the pelt. The Khajiit waved him off. She had made ten times the fur's worth today already and the day was only half done. He needed it and she didn't, it was as simple as that.

It was evening and one or two or three hours before closing time when the last person the merchant wanted to see appeared at her stall.

"Didn't I say I don't want to see your face here anymore?" Vinicia complained, backed by her husband, a fat, balding man who gave in to his wife's every whim. How lovely. Why they kept bothering her when she had the permission of the authority to set up shop she did not understand.

"Stupid face," the Khajiit replied. "You said you didn't want to see Ra'Jira's _stupid_ face _around_ here anymore," the merchant corrected her in a friendly tone but with a warning glint in her feline eyes. She saw one bored guard stir at the sight of trouble and head their way.

"Is that what that boy is teaching you?" the man puffed out his chest – or would have, if he had one to speak of. Instead, the motion only made his gut more pronounced. "Insolence for your betters?"

"I don't teach her anything!" a young voice called out behind them, before the trader could respond. It belonged to none other than Wulf. He stood with his arms crossed, no doubt trying to appear imposing. "Ra'Jira knows how to recognize people with skeevershit for brains all by herself!"

To say everybody was stuck dumb at the affront was a big understatement. Somebody in the crowd snickered nervously.

It was time to play along. The Khajiit would rather have avoided open conflict, but now that it was upon her (and through no fault of her own whatsoever) she was going to make the most of it. Like any of her kin she found adversary highly entertaining. "This one thinks she is pretty good at it, too," Ra'Jira purred, her eyes narrowing to slits.

"You'll be gone by the time I count to three," the husband threatened, pointing a finger like a sausage at the merchant's face. "One. Two."

Oh, the expectations of bigoted dimwits. Destined to be forever ignored and disappointed.

"Ma'am, are these people bothering you?" The guard had arrived and apparently Vinicia had a reputation that preceded her. He could not have heard their exchange. Nobody answered. The guard turned his attention to the fat man. "Please, leave before I have to report you for harassment."

"But we have to help him," Wulf spoke up from behind the guard.

"And why is that?" the soldier sighed.

"You can see he's stuck," Wulf explained, wiping his snotty nose on his sleeve. "It's 'three'," he reminded the stunned husband, holding up as many fingers. "The one after 'two'."

"You little – "

It was most unwise to attack a citizen in the broad light of the day and in the presence of the city guard. Vinicia's husband got himself arrested and it was most satisfying – even if his wife bought him out of prison on the same day.

"She's just mean and Rufio is a coward," Wulf explained on their way to Ra'Jira's house; he was helping her carry things this time. The merchant unlocked the doors and let them in, stacking the crates one atop the other. Her wares took up most of the space, along with a big pile of firewood. But for a temporary home it wasn't half bad.

"Do you have another shirt?," the Khajiit asked suddenly.

"Yeah," Wulf answered, picking at a loose thread of the stained cloth. "But this is my winter shirt."

Ra'Jira clucked her tongue and opened some crates, looking through them until she found what she was looking for. "Here. Try this on."

Two gifts in a day; she was beginning to mother to boy. But when Wulf looked like he might burst into tears at the kindness, her heart melted.

oooo

Morning Star was the coldest month of the year and Ra'Jira had not opened her stall in several days.

Some Nords said that if you spit on the ground, the spit would freeze before it hit the ground. The Khajiit had tested it, of course, and found it to be true. By the Mane! Her clan would never believe half of her stories when she returned. And she had not touched moonsugar in over two years!

Her mother would know that she had walked many countries of Tamriel, having done the same when she had been her age. Hopefully she would find her daughter worthy of leading the clan and if she did, the merchant would become a matriarch herself in time and change her name to Ri'Jira.

But such a day was far away yet and the Khajiit was not in Elsweyr, but in her small hut, feeding logs to the fire. Her supplies had dwindled drastically in the past days; she would have to make a trip to the mill soon. The citizens of Bruma had warned her that there would be a time – usually two to three weeks – when the temperature plummeted and she would be wise to stay at home.

A few fur-clad Nords laughed at them, claiming that this wasn't 'cold' in their homeland, this actually was a pleasant winter. The Imperials grumbled and shook their heads and called them crazy.

One stormy night Ra'Jira found Wulf in front of her house. She had not heard him knock and call out, because the wind was howling loud enough to drown out most noise and in the hearth the logs cracked from time to time. When she opened the door to check that weird noise the she imagined hearing occasionally, she found him shaking and blue lipped and ushered him inside immediately.

"Come in," the Khajiit urged "And undress. Here, Ra'Jira has some dry clothes for you. You must be freezing."

"A true Nord is never cold," he quoted, teeth chattering and it sounded exactly like the rubbish his father must have been feeding him.

The Khajiit wrapped him up in all the furs and blankets she had and he curled up on the rug in front of the fire.

The merchant hung up his clothes – they were partly frozen and as stiff and hard as a plank. She lit a few candles, all the while talking. He had given her quite a scare! "What are you doing out here?" she could not help but chide. He could have frozen to death! "Why aren't you home?"

"It's Faði. He's getting worse." Wulf had a large bruise on his cheek.

Ra'Jira felt a bolt of white-hot anger coarse through her. She felt very protective of her young friend. "Does he hit you?" she enquired in a kind voice.

"No." Wulf appeared unconcerned and she calmed down a bit. "He just hits around," he replied with a shrug. "I don't think he even knows I'm there. Can I stay here?" he asked after a while.

"Of course." What a question. "You get warmed up now."

But warming up was boring and all too soon she had to entertain her guest with more tales of her homeland. She missed it dearly, but it was also pleasant to share the memories with somebody. As always, Wulf's curiosity was insatiable.

"What's it like to have a tail?" he surprised the Khajiit with one of his questions.

"What is it like not to have a tail, this one would like to ask of you," Ra'Jira countered.

"I don't know."

"Exactly. Because you've always been without one. Ra'Jira has always had a tail and thus she cannot explain. What this one does not understand, however, is how one can speak that Nord language of yours and not stumble across all the 'hr' and 'gdr' and 'sthrr'." She had picked up a few words from him, just as he had learned a few of Ta'agra.

Wulf pondered the matter for a while before he answered. "Just pretend you're choking on a ball of fur."

After all this time the boy could still surprise her. "How do you know about the fur balls?" the trader wanted to know.

"I had a cat. Uh, a real one. Not a talking one like you," the urchin answered and ignored the Khajiit's snort of amusement.

_It had disappeared after a day and Wulf had not seen it again. But that night they had dined on meat and Wulfryk had not asked his father where it had come from. _

"I'm hungry," Wulf declared when he was no longer shaking with cold and his attention turned to his neglected stomach.

"This one had bought supplies for many days. How about we make us some salmon?" Ra'Jira proposed and was gifted with a huge grin that she happily returned.

oooo

Ra'Jira never thought she would be sorry to see winter pass. In the sun the snow began to melt and turn to puddles and everywhere she heard the soft sound of water dripping. She balked at the thought of leaving so soon and invented reasons why she could not set out just yet. But she could not delay forever and in the end the merchant was forced to admit that she could not stall any longer.

It was time to say goodbye to Bruma and to her friends, but in truth there was only one person she was going to miss. Said boy was visiting her for the last time, unsmiling this time. The Khajiit had never made any secret of the fact that she was going to leave.

It was unusual for Wulf to be so quiet, but then Ra'Jira could not think of anything to say that did not involve her departure. The boy just sat on her rug with his legs tucked underneath him, admiring the merchant's slightly curved knife.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"Yes. It looks like faðir's sword, only smaller."

"Ra'Jira will give it to you," the Khajiit decided on a whim. "But things do not come for free in life; you will have to give me something else in return."

Wulf only had two possessions with him, half a loaf of bread that was today's meal and maybe tomorrow's as well and an old wooden toy that had seen so much love she wondered if he had picked it up after some other child had thrown it away.

The boy offered her the bread without second thought.

"Your food?" the Khajiit asked. "You do not need toys to live, but you need to eat," she reminded him.

"I can always get another one," Wulf replied with a shrug.

"Such a smart lad," Ra'Jira purred, pleased. "This one should teach you of the ways of the Renrijra Krin."

"The who?"

"The Smiling Scum. The Mercanary's Grin. The Laugh of the Landless. It is what others have called us Khajiit in their scorn. We have taken the name and made it out own." She felt the boy settle against her and smiled. It had taken a long time to earn his trust. The merchant continued. "We have certain guidelines -"

"Laws?" Wulf interrupted.

"No, young one. Not laws. We Renrijra do not believe in law as your people or the Imperials do. We do not follow it, though we strongly believe in justice. These are just some rules that we obey – when it suits us most. It is good to be brave," Ra'Jira cited the first, if not the most important of the thjizzrini. "But sometimes it is necessary to run away." The boy already knew that. He may never have heard of the foolish concepts, but he was already following them, just as any Khajiit would. They too did not need them spelled out but drank the truths in with their mother's milk.

"Life is to be enjoyed, but if you have to kill, do so without qualm."

Wulf's eyes went wide at the last part. Ra'Jira smiled sadly. She hoped he would be spared that last part, but the chance was high that he wouldn't. It was better to know about such things, as they did not spare the ignorant.

"Give freely to the people. Possessions are a burden; they will only weight you down." She hoped she had been a good example.

And the last one. "Ahzirr Traajijazeri. Justly take what is yours."

"What does that mean?"

Interesting that this was the only tenant he asked to know more about. How to explain to one who was not Khajiit? But, maybe, it wasn't so difficult after all. They were already very much alike, not in appearance but where it counted – on the inside. Ra'Jira never expected to find one of their own on her journey, one whose road led through snows bitter cold and not the hot sands that were in this Khajiit's dreams.

"It means that if you have to take something in order to survive, then do so. And if you cannot take it, make sure that it is of no use to anybody else, either. Revenge is a simple and pragmatic goal, but it should be the last one. And make sure you smile when you take whatever is yours."

She had never entrusted another one with such profound knowledge of her people. Ra'Jira sighed. "You should go to Elsweyr," she told Wulf. "The White Paws would welcome you; I name you szarij doha'jiit; friend of Khajiit. You would fit right in." When she reached out to ruffle his hair, this once the boy did not jerk away as he had done before, but surprised the Khajiit by hugging her for a long time.

Wulf never forgot Ra'Jira's parting words.

xxxx

Brutio complained. About absolutely everything. He was a greedy, despicable man who believed himself to be clever, but was only one step above a thug, picking on those smaller than him. He found faults with Wulf's work, pointing them out in a too-loud voice that made his workers shift nervously and avert their eyes as they scurried about. He was too slow. He was too sloppy. The pieces of wood were irregular in size, some no more than shavings while others needed to be split apart further. It went on and on.

Brutio was big, with square jowls, meaty fists and broad shoulders that cowed lesser men. He also had a gut, a too-small shirt that had food stains all over it and he stank of rancid meat and sour milk. 'Bloody Milkdrinker', Wulf thought darkly and scowled at the Imperial in defiance, refusing to break eye contact and determined to stand his ground. It wasn't his fault his father was too drunk to come to work, and that he needed to jump in. That he was not as strong and needed a break from time to time. Wulf was tall for his age, as most Nords were, but he was still just a child and he had never chopped wood before, or done any other kind of work, in fact.

Every muscle in his body ached. His back hurt. There were blisters on his palms that had broken open. Wulf's blood was on the handle of the woodcutter's axe that he now twirled between his sore hands. It hurt, but not as much as facing the hulking Imperial on his own did, whilst everybody just gawked stupidly at the show.

And worst of all, he needed the money to survive. The town was too small and too many people knew about his thieving ways. It had become increasingly more difficult to filch something from the market stalls and breaking into houses was dangerous. That was a secret he had shared only with Ra'Jira. He had to let himself be caught at the market every now and then, because it turned people's attentions away from everything else he was doing.

And he wouldn't always get away, talk himself out or just plead wih his eyes until they let him go. He wasn't _that_ young anymore. Wulf's scowl deepened. Everything was horrible now that Ra'Jira was gone. She had understood him and without his friend he felt lonelier now than he had ever had before he had met her.

In the end Brutio offered the boy fifteen coppers for a whole day of backbreaking labour, less than one tenth of what he paid his father. The Imperial might strut around like a cock in a pen of hens most of the time, but not even he dared to provoke the other Nord. With his silent glowers, the rage simmering inside him, boosted by lots of drink and a very real sword at his hip, nobody attempted to cheat Garmr.

"Two Silvers." Wulf was surprised that his voice did not shake. He should be afraid, but he was angry, tired and hungry. As his father slowly drowned in his cups, food had become a rare commodity. And though he had grown used to evading Garmr's sloppy swings, he dreaded what would await him when he brought home _fifteen lousy coppers_.

"Sod off, brat," Brutio growled and shook a hand that was too close to his face for Wulf's comfort and he involuntarily took a step back. "Take your money or leave."

It was the final straw. "þúgrís-riðav hludr-o skīta ȋósæd! You piss-drenched Snowback," the boy shouted at the top of his lungs, mad with anger and infuriated with his own helplessness. "I want my money!"

"What did you say!?" Those small, red rimmed and watery eyes had begun to burn with rage as the Imperial's voice rose to a bellow. "I'll teach you some respect!"

He was enjoying this, Wulf realized with a sick twist to his stomach in the split-second before Brutio swung his fist.

Wulf swung the axe.

xxxx

The sound of hooves on stone was loud in the otherwise soundless night.

"Should have stayed away from that flea-ridden cat," Garmr scolded his son. He sounded angry, but then he always did of late, just as he now smelled of drink. "They're skooma-addicts, liars and thieves."

"You are a drunk," Wulf replied indifferently. "And I'm a thief. Besides, I got nuthin' worth stealing."

The man behind him grunted, not happy with the boy's answer. "You do now," he reminded him.

"Yes, faði," Wulf replied automatically, his small hands tracing the patterns on the knife's sheath that had been a gift from his friend.

The weapon was too big for him, but he would grow into it in time. It was a fine blade, the craftsmanship superb and the steel undoubtedly Nord, hard as the leather sheath and grip were soft. When they reached their destination Garmr would have to teach his son how to properly take care of it.

After a while of quiet riding, Wulfryk wriggled around in the saddle, trying to turn and the man grabbed him by the collar to prevent the child from falling off.

"Can we keep the horse?" his son pleaded, looking back at his father, eyes wide and hopeful.

"No," he barked and after a while cursed vividly, asking "What in Oblivion possessed you to take an axe to Brutio?"

"He wouldn't pay me," his son responded, voice quiet and heavy with guilt. "And then he tried to hit me." And, after a long while, "I'm sorry."

Garmr sighed heavily and reached down to squeeze Wulf's shoulder affectionately. He wasn't happy about them having to leave, but some people just had it coming. And maybe it had been time to leave that shithole of a backwater anyway. Too close to Skyrim for his liking. They could disappear and then start over. It was always easy to find work at first.

"I'm not sayin' you shouldn't' ave done it," Garmr grunted, soon followed by "Next time, make sure you hit proper. If we're going to be fugitives from the law, there'd better be a good reason for us to run. An arm ain't worth all this trouble."

"Where are we going?" the boy wanted to know, looking around for the first time. Not that there was much to see, except for the dark forest, their path lit only by the light of the moon.

"South. I am fucking tired of the cold."

Wulf said nothing after that. It would be nice to be warm for a change.

* * *

**AN:** Since this is rated T; Wulf insinuated that Brutio intercoursed a swine, also implying that the Imperial was a swindler and a piece of – dung.

_**Former summary: **In the village of Bruma a Nord boy grows up and a wandering Khajiit trader is astonished at having found one of their own so very far from home. For though his road leads through snows bitter cold and not the warm sands that this Khajiit dreams about, the two are, in the end, very much alike. _

_Featuring kid! Wulf, this is a two-shot that takes place long before the events of 'Before the Storm' and though I would recommend reading the other story first, it's not a prerequisite, nor is any knowledge of the series. _

I changed it because back then I had only one chapter and wasn't quite sure where this story would go and now that chapter 2 is up, I no longer found it fitting.

Thank you for reading!


	2. On a Hot Summer's Eve

I don't usually do this, but the radio played 'The Boxer' by Simon and Garfunkel while I was writing this chapter and it kind of became the theme. A bit modern, but still somehow fitting, I believe, at least for the first half.

And, I'm fed up with grownup-Wulf; the kid is so much easier to write about.

Anyway, enjoy the story!

* * *

On a hot summer's eve a cloud of dust rose in the stuffy common room of the Lost Wench Tap House; small silvery specks that glittered in the narrow ray of sunshine that filtered through the cracked shutters of the grimy windows. A light dusting of grey they looked to be the cleanest thing inside the shoddy common room and settled on every flat surface: on the floor and tables, the shelves and atop the counter, no matter how often Trenus ordered Wulf to wipe it down.

With the unwashed rag he had the only thing the boy could do anyway was to smear the dirt from one place to another. But, with keen diligence and an unwavering sense of duty, he always swept it to wherever Trenus wasn't currently looking.

Wulfryk leaned against the soot-stained wood of one of the beams supporting the upper story and yawned. It made him inhale too deeply and he sneezed when his nose began to itch so badly he could not hold it back. Making sure that the barkeep's attention was focused on somewhere else he used the corner of the cloth in his hand to wipe his nose with.

And why not when any patron unwise enough to blunder in left in much a worse state than they arrived in, anyway?

The Lost Wench Tap House was a prime example of a seedy lower Waterfront establishment, encompassing the many faces of the district it was located in: poverty, depression and an insatiable hunger for drunken brawls and cheap quayside grog.

Although the origin of the name seemed rather obvious, nobody knew what exactly had happened to said lass who had worked at the inn for over twenty years before she had mysteriously disappeared one day. Only that she had gone missing right in the middle of her shift and was never seen again. Nobody knew where she had gone, either.

Wulf wrinkled his nose. If everything (and sometimes anyone) else appearing there floating upside-down was an indication, the canal was as likely a guess as any.

He suppressed another yawn, tossed the rag into a corner and stretched. After a busy night and day when he had to jump in for one of his fellow workers, it was time for him to collect his pay from the innkeeper and to go home.

Working at the tap house often was dull, mind-numbing work, but it had its perks. It kept Wulfryk well informed on everything that went on in the city (and the miserable private lives of the clients), the food was free and the patrons often too inebriated to notice when a few more coins went missing than there was a legitimate explanation for.

And, in his own crooked way, Trentus was a fair employer.

"I'm done here," Wulf called out to the man in question.

"Is the bar clean?" the other hollered back.

"No! But it ain't any more dirty, either!" He wasn't a magician and if Trenus hoped for a wonder he'd better take up praying.

Just then the doors opened and a harried looking Bosmer entered and looked around nervously. The smile that Wulf greeted him with was not entirely friendly, though none of it was in his voice as he cheerfully announced "Nalion! There's a pigeon drowned in the right upper vat; boss wants you to fish it out. Don't fall in and drown yourself!" the boy added with a smirk.

Nalion, who was his relief, groaned unhappily. "How comes the boss never makes you do the dirty work?" the Bosmer complained.

"'Cause I ain't late for work," Wulf shot back and pushed past him and through the door, out into the warm, humid evening. Finally he could go home. Not that there was anything about that place worth returning to, except for a pallet that he called his own where he could crash and sleep until morning.

The boy rubbed at his eyes and squinted at the orange orb of the setting sun. It was a peaceful view, something that could not be said about the rest of the city, and he allowed himself to enjoy it for a brief while before he finally turned his back on it and marched in the opposite direction. Away from the docks the smell of stagnant brackish water, tar and rotting water plants was no longer overpowering and a fresh breeze made breathing easier. Wulf's feet carried him through the Temple district where the Temple of the One, untouched by the Oblivion crisis and the Great War put all other buildings to shame. It was one of the wealthiest parts of town and would be pleasant if not for the upturned faces of its residents and the guards who were quick to remind the returning workers that loiterers of _their kind_ were not welcome here.

The boy's way led through the Arboretum that used to be a park where bored noblemen and their dainty ladies hung out a long time ago but was just a fancy graveyard now with statues of people long dead and to what had once been the Arena. _If_ there had ever been an arena it was long gone by now; the locals called the district the Flea Pit and it was the poor quarter of the city – but still better than the slums outside that leaned against the crooked Imperial City wall like two inebriated sailors against one another.

'He should sweep the market', Wulf thought. Not_ The Market_, as in the neighbourhood where the upper-class trades- and master craftsmen ran their businesses and famous artists had their work on display between the arcades. Where there were entire stores full of books, and magical artefacts and where the smell of exotic foods and spices hung in the air like the perfume rich ladies favoured so.

No, there were plenty of stalls and ramshackle shops right at every corner in the Flea Pit and those who plied their trade in the streets were whores (and) or cutthroats. At this hour most vendors were in a hurry, their attention already turned to their homes and families as they packed their goods. The distracted merchants and the commotion they caused was always a great opportunity for filching a few unobserved odds and ends.

Wulf's fingers itched, but he was tired and not focused on the task at hand and a slip-up was dangerous. These people wouldn't hesitate to drag him to the guard and many wouldn't bother with even that – there were other, quicker ways to deal with thieves and pickpockets and none of them pleasant. So, the boy passed through the crowded streets keeping his hands to himself and occasionally dodged the grown-ups too busy to look out to avoid collision.

A short while later he made it to the hovel that was the home his father and he shared. Garmr wasn't there which wasn't unusual these days. Wulf didn't mind. He had grown used to being solitary, although at times he did miss the other children, his friends. Often he remembered Ra'Jira and daydreamed about the exotic places she had told him about. His young mind conjured up images of landscapes he had never seen; deserts and canyons and even the azure sea that he pictured as a bigger (and cleaner) version of Lake Rumare.

That particular night Wulf curled up thinking of Bruma and the pang of homesickness he felt kept him tossing and turning for a long time before sleep finally overtook him.

oooo

The novelty of living in the capital of the Empire had worn off quickly.

Garmr had sold their horse a long time before they came into view of the city. When at long last they did, after many days filled with sheer endless walking, Wulf thought that it was the grandest thing he would ever behold. Because it certainly was the most spectacular sight he had seen in his young life so far. The long, arched bridge across the shallow waters of the Rumare Lake, the high, round walls and the White Gold Tower - a shining spire that reached far into the clouds – it seemed impossible that humans built such splendid structures without any help from the Gods.

The grandeur did not withstand closer inspection, though. The cobblestones on that bridge had deep trenches from centuries of carriages that passed over them and many were missing, leaving behind dark gaps like rotting teeth in a smile. The walls were crumbling and the White Gold Tower could not be seen from the Flea Pit which was the only district fit for two Nord vagabonds to live in. The coins Garmr received in exchange for the horse were not enough to buy the tiny shack they lived in; they had to rent it and it would not take long before they had more debts than money.

Wulf's father took whatever jobs were offered to him and worked ceaselessly to keep them from being beggared and to finance his addiction while his son was left to fend for himself.

The first few days the boy had been too scared to leave the illusory safety of their four walls. It didn't help that said home was located in a pretty run-down part of the city and none of their neighbours seemed to be of the friendly sort. There were just too many people here and to make things worse they spoke in a funny way so that Wulfryk only understood about every fourth word. Or rather, pretended that he did because it made him feel less like despairing.

The boy already knew Nordic, since his father refused to speak any other language and back in Bruma most Imperials spoke a mix between High Cyrodilic and the Trader's Tongue with a distinctive influence of Nordic that was reflected in their choice of words and the cadence of their speech.

In theory, Wulf was familiar with all three languages, yet the unique, drawn-out, hard dialect of the Heartlands and the neutral, monotonous tongue the merchants of the Imperial City preferred were all but unintelligible to him.

On the bright side, they had an almost unobstructed view of the Bastion from the Flea Pit's main square. It had been a major defensive fortification in the Great War and now housed many high ranking Imperial Legionnaires, a prison as well as the law square, where corporal punishments and executions were carried out.

Under those circumstances it was unsurprising that at first the boy rarely and only reluctantly ventured outside. Eventually, boredom, hunger and a growing compulsion to explore his surroundings drove him out. Wulf roamed the streets, mouth agape with wonder at the tall houses in the wealthier parts of town, some with ornate facades and the sounds and smells of the city around him. He got lost in the winding streets quite often, sometimes even for hours on end but since he had nowhere he needed to be and wouldn't be missed it mattered little and he always found his way back in the end.

On one occasion he accidently blundered through an alley that he had no place being in and pack of children ganged up on him. He was able to escape in the chase that followed and spent a very uncomfortable night hidden behind a chimney atop the roofs, eyes and ears strained for any signs of disturbance.

After the incident he took to carrying the knife Ra'Jira had given him. He kept it as she had done; at his back hidden beneath the cloak that had been another gift.

Over time, Wulf fell back into a routine not unlike the one he'd had in Bruma. Stealing in a city wasn't any different than stealing in a village, except that the stakes were higher. But then, so were the rewards. Wulfryk bid his time, observing the merchants at their stalls from a shady spot next to a fountain. It was nothing grand, just a stone basin and a pipe that filled it up with water; nothing like the marble carvings and jets of water he had seen from afar in the rich districts. This one was for drinking. There were plenty of others throughout the city, and many were used for washing all manners of things. It was unwise to confuse the two.

Here, in the Flea Pit, the boy was just another street urchin, and blended in well with the flocks of dirty, begging children, the youngest of which were less than half his age.

The vendors knew how to fend off those, he noticed. A child with all his attention on the goods and a hunger in its eyes that he knew well was shouted at and shooed away before ever coming close.

A busy errand boy on the other hand nobody paid any attention to. It took Wulf two weeks of riffling through the rubbish at the docks in order to find a suitable casket. Once he had the small box though, all he had to do was look suitably harassed and shoulder his way through the crowd and small items made their way into his pockets seemingly on their own.

Inevitably, the boy felt himself drawn to the cloth halls with their airy arcades knowing full well that this was a too dangerous place to attempt anything. The keen eyes of both the guards and merchants followed him but he liked to marvel at the things displayed in the booths and pretending to have a chore gave him an excuse to come back and gawk.

Most of the things Wulf pilfered were edibles and he did so during the busiest hours of the day, always on the move. Unlike professional pickpockets he had to work on his own with nobody he could fall back on. Those passed the stolen goods on the very moment they got their hands on them. Even if the attempt was discovered the coin purse or piece of jewellery was long gone by then – and with it any evidence of the thief's guilt.

Wulf wasn't as lucky. When he was caught it was red-handed and the slap in the face he received was enough to stun him for long enough that by the time he could have put up a fight he was handed over to a city guard. Something was dribbling over his face, he realized at the same time his stomach flipped, making him queasy and his legs shake.

In the end the Bruma villagers had looked away, always. But in the Imperial City pickpockets got their hands nailed to a wooden post, right where everybody could stare and toss stones at them.

"Please, sir," Wulf did his best to appear remorseful, which wasn't very difficult with tears of fear pricking at his eyes. "I'm sorry. I was so hungry."

The guard was kind, as guards went and with children of his own that Wulf of course knew nothing about. He told Wulf that first time offenders were only imprisoned, and nobody was going to nail him to anything for a stale bun. He did, though, drag the boy off to jail and locked him in a small cell.

True, it wasn't the kennels, as the heavily frequented and mostly overcrowded single-cell prison in the Flea Pit was called, but Wulf did not see what all the fuss about getting oneself thrown into jail was about, either. There was food, bedding and the roof did not leak.

He made sure to approach the same guard when next he needed a place to stay, since his father was raving back home. "I stole this," he said to the astounded man, holding out an apple. "Can I sleep in prison again?"

It was probably the first time in the history of the city guard that a criminal was punished by going free.

The soldiers didn't need him to clean or cook, but the guard relayed a rumour he had heard about a smith who surely needed help because his apprentice had broken his hand and with a very stern warning not to steal again that Wulf did not question for once second, he sent the boy on his way.

oooo

Ignatio, a foul-tempered blacksmith by profession, found a black-haired Nord child sitting on his front porch one morning.

"Did your apprentice heal his hand?" the boy asked, jumping up.

"No," the Imperial answered before he could stop himself, wondering how the brat knew and angry at Arius for being a blundering idiot.

"Then you need help," the boy stated.

Ignatio did not deign that comment with an answer except to tell the urchin to 'sod off'.

"I can chop wood," the boy offered and Ignatio cursed because the brat had been right in first place.

Wulf was allowed to do that, at least, and to work the bellows, which was sweaty, hard work and monotonous on top. He struck a good bargain with a part of his pay consisting of food and at midday he sat on the other side of the road, munching on a loaf of bread, a slice of cheese and some fruit. Ignatio had warned him that he didn't want him anywhere near his shop. When he saw how much swords cost, Wulf could understand his nervousness. He did not know the name of the numbers on the price tags, since there were _three_ of them, and he was quite sure it wasn't coppers or silvers, but _Septims_.

When he had proven himself a hard worker, Ignatio showed the boy how to repair damaged blades, how to break them out of their handles if necessary and to take down a notched edge and to sharpen and polish it so it looked like new again. It wasn't very difficult and there was an entire pile of old knifes and shears and scissors that people had brought to the blacksmith for fixing. It wasn't what earned Ignatio money, but someone still had to do it and Wulf turned out to be more adept than his former useless apprentice.

He did the work and with less complaining than that witless dullard who had been apprenticed to the blacksmith and Ignatio almost enjoyed working with the boy who was quiet and concentrated, yet always knew what his employer wanted him to do. However, the apprentice was paid for and the urchin was not and when 'that oaf', as Ignatio regularly called his trainee, returned, the boy had to go.

oooo

Thus live went on until roughly a year after Wulf's arrival in the Imperial City an epidemic of the smallpox broke out. Trade stopped as the city gates were closed – some blamed a Redguard caravan for carrying in the disease, others the Divines and there even were rumours coursing that the elves had something to do with it. All that was undisputable was that by the end of the third week the dead were carted out of the city by the hundreds.

Wulf woke up one day, feeling sick. His head and very bones hurt and his muscles were sore and weak.

"Faði."

Garmr grunted at his son's soft voice, but miraculously woke from his stupor, alerted by something in his son's tone. "What?"

Wulf tried to answer, but he couldn't. His throat felt swollen and it hurt, but that wasn't why he began to sob. He had seen the corpses. He did not want to become one of them.

Once the tears began to roll there was no stop to them and he only cried harder when Garmr's bunk creaked under the man's weight when he got up. His father was probably hung-over and angry with him at being woken and his weakness. Because if there was one thing real Nords did not do, it was to cry like a newborn babe.

Wulf expected being shouted at or maybe a cuff to the head, but not for a cool hand to rest at his brow and run through his hair.

"Y're runnin' a fever," Garmr slurred and a furrow of worry for his only child appeared between his brows. He drew the boy into a strong but comforting embrace and made soft noises of comfort that Wulf did not remember ever having heard from his father whilst he bawled his eyes out into the man's chest.

It would be the only outright good memory of his father that Wulf had and even so it was overshadowed by the very real fear of not living through the next days.

"Stay here," Garmr instructed his son once the boy had calmed down somewhat and wrapped him in blankets, stroking his back. "I'll be back as soon as I have seen to some things. Try to rest and get better."

Wulf nodded his acquiescence and tried to sleep, but his condition did not improve. It became worse.

An indeterminable amount of time later, it could have been hours or days, Wulf woke up when Garmr grabbed his him and he was conscious of being lifted and carried somewhere. Somewhere turned out to be one of the richer districts. The guards did not want to let them pass, but Garmr pulled a pouch full of gold coins from inside his shirt – he wasn't wearing his usual shabby clothes, Wulf noticed dimly, but garments that bordered on finery – and the soldiers opened a small gate and looked the other way as they walked through.

Their destination turned out to be a temple and a priestess clad in light grey robes opened a solid door when Garmr kicked it several times.

"I need a healer," the Nord barked as soon as the doors opened and made to move past the surprised woman.

"I am sorry, sir, but we do not work for charity's sake," she protested and stood in their way, arms crossed.

"I got money, don't you worry about it," Garmr answered, not deterred by her stern frown in the least.

The priestess took a heavy breath to refute them once more, but Garmr didn't let her get another word out edgewise.

"Lady," the Nord growled, clearly running out of patience. "I'll get your money. _But first you are going to heal my son._" His tone indicated that bad things would follow if she did not comply at once.

With Garmr's boot in the doorway and his sword between him and the healer and with the furious Nord himself glaring her down she did the only thing she could and let them in, directing them to an empty booth at the temple's right wing.

Wulf got his own bed and apparently the healers got their money, because a while later they were poking and prodding at the boy who curled up in misery. The boy dozed fitfully through most of his stay, the chanting and the prayers, though he remembered being woken to soft golden light once and feeling a vague sadness when he thought he was going to die now.

He woke up later though, and didn't know what scared him more, the moans of the other patients, the lesions on his hands and body that he could glimpse whenever he forgot not to look, the priest's hushed whispers or the fact that his father had not left his side or touched a bottle. He knew because there was not a trace of the smell about him. Garmr was there, silent and sober, his presence somehow comforting and he ran his strong fingers over Wulf's scalp in soothing circles while telling wondrous stories of a faraway country called 'Skyrim' and fetching water whenever his son asked for it.

oooo

Two weeks later Wulf was released from the healers' care, free to leave the temple. His face itched and his father slapped his hand away when he tried to scratch and grabbed his other, giving his son a lift whenever he jumped over a puddle.

"Faði? What's with all the guards?"

Garmr didn't answer except with a well-practiced, vacant expression that would one day grace his son's face. Back then Wulf did not know how to read the posters that were at every street corner. He did wonder though how his father managed to pay the soldiers and priests, but he did not ask again.

The scars shocked him at first when he saw them, the scabs all aver his cheeks, chin and around his mouth.

"They'll fade. If not you'll just grow a beard when you're a man," Garmr commented, unconcerned. "Won't be a trace left."

oooo

"Boy!" Trenus hollered, half-leaning out of the doorway of the Lost Wench when he saw Wulf wandering the docks one evening a few months after his recovery. "Get your old man out of my inn!"

Garmr was sitting bent over a table, head buried in his crossed arms with a half-full (or half-empty, depending on one's mental attitude) tankard of ale in front of him. Said tankard was emptied entirely when Wulf pitched the drink over his father's head.

"Trenus is throwing you out," the boy said emotionlessly when his father's bloodshot eyes fixed on him.

"Is he now?" The other patrons backed away at the tone, but Wulf just caught the mug that went sailing in his (or rather Trenus') general direction and within the next couple of minutes he had coaxed his drunk father to come with him without a resulting argument or brawl.

"Boy!" Trenus shouted after the leaving pair, slightly impressed. "You good at handling drunks?"

He was and got hired by the innkeeper on the very next day. Serving ale was boring and cleaning up even more so, but the pay while not exactly good, was regular.

Sometimes the guests were interesting, as well. One night about a year from the day he had been given his first honest job ever, a bunch of mercenaries indulged him with stories and the evening was almost nice, even if they laughed at him when he asked if he could come with them and be a guard.

But that night the boy sat awake, restless, and dreamed once more of travelling, of making his way in the wide world.

'As what?', he thought with disgust. He didn't have a sword, not even an old one like his father.

And then: 'Faðir has a sword that he doesn't need.'

Wulf made up his mind that night. He scraped together all the coin he had saved up during his year of work, bundled up all his possessions and left without any goodbyes. Garmr wasn't going to wake up before it was time for his morning shift anyway and there was nothing left for Wulf to say to him.

It was folly for a twelve year old to set out without friends, experience or even a clear idea of a destination.

Yet sometimes necessity drives one to absurd decisions.

There was no living for him here, Wulf knew, young though he was. He'd either run a tavern himself if he was lucky or end up a street thug like so many others before him. One more piece of trash to be swept away when the guard raided the Flea Pit and rounded up all the criminals in one of their sporadic attempts to lower the criminality in the poorer districts. Then he'd wash up in the canal himself one day, another existence built upon a multitude of bad decisions and notable only for the amount of wasted opportunities. There had to be more to life than that.

The caravan rolled out of the city at dawn and Wulf followed. What food, coin and few possessions he had were safely stored in his stolen bag and he carried his father's sword slung across one shoulder.

He had made up his mind. They had to be going somewhere and anywhere was better than _here_.

xxxx

Holmar Redbeard was one of the four guards hired to protect the old man Rislav's caravan. They were all Nords here. Sliveig, the only woman in their company and a foul tempered vixen as one could be, Bronn their muscle and Sven who prided himself on being able to shoot a bird on the wing. Holmar yet had to see him perform the deed the lean warrior liked to boast about, but since he provided their dinner on many evenings the Redbeard kept his doubts to himself.

Only, now they had an unwelcome addition. The warrior looked over his shoulder to affirm whether the boy was still sticking to their group like a tick to a stray dog. He was. The child had been trailing after them ever since they had left the Imperial City. Holmar recognised him as one of the serving staff from the shabby low town quayside inn they had spent one evening in. And what a bad decision that had turned out to be. His stomach roiled whenever he thought back to said night.

Who would have thought that after surviving what passed for food in those parts and the cheap ale, the combination of which had him squatting in the bushes more often than he cared to think about, one street urchin would be their biggest problem?

They should never have given in to his pleas for stories of an adventurer's life, but the brat had been adamant in his demands, needling them with questions about their group's exploits. It wasn't everyday that the (admittedly, somewhat embellished) life of a caravan guard induced such wide-eyed curiosity and admiration. Sven had thought it was great fun. Well, he wasn't laughing now, ten days and two hundred miles later.

Step by step, day after day the kid kept up with their group, never venturing closer than two hundred yards, yet never quite out of sight, either.

He was stubborn; Holmar had to give him that. Refusing his absurd offer to join them as a guard had not deterred the boy one bit. But they were a warriors and not nannies and the brat had to go.

He was ripped out of his thoughts by an argument he had heard more times than he could count.

"Dammit, Bronn!" Sliveig shouted "That was _my_ sweetroll, you horker-faced gluttonous numbskull!"

"I didn't take it, woman," the burly Nord replied sourly.

The treat was not the first thing that had gone missing and despite his defensive attitude the Redbeard suspected Bronn; they all did. All that muscle had to come from something. Something other than dry rations and the occasional meat from a fresh kill. The rest of the day's march passed mostly in silence until nightfall had everybody bustling around, helping with erecting their camp. After months of working together everybody had tasks assigned and every action had been rehearsed until they could have manoeuvred around each other while blindfolded.

Each evening they drew straws for the order in which they would keep watch. There were three guards per night while the fourth was allowed to sleep through, so that everybody got a night's worth of undisturbed sleep every four days. That system prevented the warriors from suffering the consequences of constant work. It was fair, simple and kept everybody happy.

On one such night a couple of days later the softest of rustles alerted the Redbeard to a presence. He looked away from the dark forest around them, but could discern little with their campfire no more than coals glowing in the darkness. He did not glimpse down though, preserving his night-vision and pulled a dagger from its sheath at his belt. Now he only needed to approach quietly enough not to alert their visitor to him being there. Luck was on his side that moonlit night and a small shape was visible inside Rislav's wagon where they had most of their provisions stored.

The urchin twisted around, a look of surprise mixed with shock on his young face as out of nowhere Holmar's meaty fist grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and he was dragged from the wagon.

"You!" the warrior growled, satisfied with his catch. Now he knew where their food was disappearing. The little thief was going to rue the day-

The knee caught him in the balls by surprise. Holmar's grip slacked as starbursts of white exploded behind his eyes even as his private parts were engulfed by an inferno of agony. The warrior went on one knee with a grunt that was more of a high pitched keen and when he looked up it was in time to see the boy disappear into the night.

Damn that little bastard! Damn him to Oblivion and back!

"What's wrong, Holmar?" Sliveig teased the next morning. "You walk all crooked."

So they noticed. At least nobody had heard his whimpers when he pissed. "I know where our pies are," Holmar retorted. At least his little exploit had not been for naught.

"We all do," Sliveig snorted, dismissing him. "Bronn's been stuffing his face with them whenever he's been on watch."

"How often do I have to tell you, woman, I did _not_ take them!" the burly, black-haired Nord roared.

"He didn't," Holmar agreed and pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the kid trailing after them. "_He_ did. He's been robbing us ever since we set out, the little shit."

"Really?" Rislav's rheumy eyes strayed to the boy for a brief moment, his tone thoughtful. "I had not noticed."

"See?," Bronn grunted. "Should have known nothing good comes from that shithole of a place," he said, undeniably meaning the Imperial City.

"What kind of a guard does that make the lot of you, then?," Rislav enquired softly, rendering the rest of the party speechless.

"We could get rid of him," Sven suggested, but one look at the archer's face was enough to tell he wasn't actually considering it, just stating a possibility that none of them would fulfil. They were killers, one and all, plying their trade for coin, but even now they clung to the honour of their Nord heritage and none of them would kill an unarmed child. Beat him black for theft? Yes. But murder? That was another thing entirely. The boy should consider himself lucky they were kinsmen. Other mercenaries would have no such qualms.

Nonetheless, the old merchant spoke up against the lean man "You will do no such thing."

Sliveig rubbed her eyes and for once she and Bronn agreed when she said that "We cannot take him with us."

"We can," the merchant answered calmly to follow it up with "As far as the next town."

"Rislav- " Holmar did not get any further.

"He could have robbed you blind _and_ slit your throat while you slept," the old man reasoned. "Since he didn't, I believe it's safe to assume he won't." He whistled at the team of horses to stop and slowly climbed off the seat. The Redbeard moved to help him but was shooed off. "You stay here; you'll just scare him off."

Then the only thing they could do was share a disbelieving look and watch the merchant hobble off, heavily leaning on an oaken walking stick.

Rislav walked slowly but even so was evident that the boy was weary of him. He probably would have bolted if it had been anybody but the elderly, unarmed merchant to approach him. Up close it was evident how tired he was, the bruises under his eyes almost as dark as his hair that framed a youthful, but grubby face stained with the dust of the road and cheeks peppered with pockmark scars; tiny rough pinpricks that spoke of him being healed, and well at that if there was no more disfigurement.

"Hello, there," Rislav greeted the lad cheerfully only to receive a sullen glare in answer. "I am Rislav," he introduced himself, "And this is my caravan." Quite superfluous, considering how long they had been followed. "Why don't you come with me," he proposed, "And we will take you as far as the next town."

"Why?"

"Because you don't look like you could go much further and it's better than having you trail after us," the merchant replied.

"I asked if I could come with you," the boy said quietly, a spark burning behind his eyes that were not quite as dull with strain as they had been a moment ago.

"And you should have listened to Bronn when he said 'no' and stayed behind. This is no life for a child. But now that you are here we will get you to a place where you can stay. I swear it," the merchant said, but quickly changed to Nordic, thinking it might make the boy believe him more. "Á minn virðing, ek-heit."

An uncertain look was followed by a hesitant nod and, finally, an answer. "Góðr. Alright."

"But _only_ to the next town," Rislav pressed. "I want you to promise not to follow us again."

"Ek-heit. I promise." The boy sounded defeated.

The merchant nodded his head, satisfied and shuffled back to the wagon. "Come now, time's wasting and it looks like it's going to rain soon. What's your name, lad?"

"Wulf." The boy kept casting uneasy looks at the four guards that were eying him with various degrees of mistrust that bordered on outright hostility.

"How did you get past my guards, Wulf?" Rislav enquired once they were in hearing range.

"Wasn't hard," Wulfryk replied easily and pointed straight at Holmar "He snores. And she," the finger wandered on to Sliveig whose eyes narrowed dangerously. "She keeps whetting her blade and the thin one whittles wood."

Rislav noticed that his hirelings looked slightly abashed at having their weaknesses and favourite diversions pointed out by somebody who did not know them otherwise at all. The merchant turned back to the boy once he was sure they all saw his pointed look and waved his hand at the covered wagon. "Go on, climb inside."

The boy did as he was told and spent the remainder of the day asleep, clutching a battered old pack to his chest. He was up again in the evening and when Bronn barked at him to make himself useful he suggested he could chop wood. A faint disdain for the activity rang in his words, but he split the logs with sure strokes that spoke of a lot of practice.

Rislav always carried some extra wood in case it rained and they couldn't collect or find any suitable firewood. If they wanted warm dinner they still had to cook somehow.

"Where did you get the sword from?" Holmar asked when they were all sitting around a small, hissing fire, sipping watery stew that tasted faintly of raw greens.

"My father." A short answer and an elusive one, but a man's past was his own and nobody else enquired further.

The following days Wulf spent sitting next to Rislav in the front, watching the countryside pass by silently. The boy wasn't much of a bother, really, he knew how to stay out of the warriors' way and minded his own business. It was all the more surprising when he pointed into the distance. "There's people ahead."

"You have sharp eyes," the old man remarked. He rubbed his own wrinkled brow and sighed with regret "Mine are failing me, alas."

"I see them," Sven who had overheard their brief exchange joined them. The archer was shielding his eyes with one hand and squinting hard.

"How many?" Rislav wanted to know.

"I can't-"

"Eight," Wulf answered and when everybody looked at him funny he drew up his shoulders defensively. "What? I can count to ten."

"Climb into the wagon," the merchant ordered and the mercenaries complied without arguing, all except for Sliveig who hid her unsheathed sword beneath a cloak. They had done this before, apparently. "You too," the old man said to Wulf who was still sitting in front and he did as he was told.

Inside, Sven had strung his bow and Bronn was warming up, stretching and rotating his massive arms. "Better to be safe than dead," Holmar remarked when he caught the boy staring at all the naked steel.

They had to get closer in order to see whom they faced and one old geezer and a woman were hardly a threat to anybody. The other group looked like a hunting party except that they bristled with weapons.

"These are as genuine huntsmen as the Blood Horkers are seamen," Bronn grunted, peeping through the canvas at the seams.

"Aye." Sliveig's expression was grim as the warrior turned towards the leader of their group. "What do you say, old man? Take them head-on or go 'round?"

Rislav was no warrior and blind as a bat but his mind was as sharp as the knife Sliveig carried in case one of her male guards got ideas. "We go through and see what they want," he decided.

"I can take out two before they get close, maybe three," Sven muttered to nobody in particular.

"Three would be good," Holmar agreed. That would leave five bandits against four Nord guards, turning the odds decidedly in their favour. "You," he addressed Wulf. "Stay inside."

As it turned out the huntsmen did want something. Coin for passage and no small amount at that and they were getting bolder by the minute. Rislav played the senile, but agreeable grandfather with astonishing conviction. The bandits might have been more suspicious if they had not been mostly drunk and, as Bronn growled with a wrinkled nose, high on skooma.

Sven's first arrow took out a woman with a bow, just as they had planned and Sliveig drove her sword through the neck of the man who was harassing Rislav. The merchant quickly sought shelter behind his wagon, as the three other warriors poured out with fierce battle-cries.

That was about as far as things went as planned.

Sven was forced to avert a blow with his bow that broke the weapon. The string's backlash caught the archer in the forearm, ripping open a bleeding gash. Bronn and Holmar both dispatched a bandit each, but Sliveig was hit by an arrow through the thigh. She managed to block a blow that would have been fatal otherwise and Bronn rushed forward to aid her.

Sven was badly pressed with only a seax as a side-sword to defend himself with against his attacker and the remaining enemy archer was scrambling backwards to put a safe shooting distance between himself and the guards. Holmar went after him and with his arms shaking with fear the other man missed the attacking Redbeard.

Bronn was cussing and somewhere a dying man shrieked for his mother in a high-pitched voice that made Wulf want to cover his ears. When next he chanced a brief look outside there was no trace of Sven, but amidst the chaos Holmar had gone down; a streak of blood running down his brow and into his eyes. An axe was stuck in his shield and as the boy looked on, another bandit stepped on the wood to wrench his weapon free.

"Come on," Wulf whispered because suspicious as the guards had been of him, the highwaymen were indefinitely worse. The Redbeard was moving, but sluggishly and when the enemy finally got his weapon lose with a laugh full of maniacal glee, he had barely managed to roll to his knees.

Garmr's sword was lying in front of Wulf, sharp and deadly, but the boy had never used a proper weapon before.

Holmar blinked through the blood that robbed him of most of his vision. Fucking, filthy skooma-addicts, didn't know when to stay down when they had been hit. He looked up in time to see another bandit run towards him and the blurry shape of his attacker lift his axe and in that moment he realized that this was it for the warrior called the Redbeard.

The axe came down, spraying blood, brains and shards of bone; splitting skull like it would a ripe watermelon.

Holmar stared up to see that Wulf boy pull their woodcutting axe from the ruin of the bandit's head, only to drop into a crouch in the next instant. He ducked beneath the blow of the second outlaw who had arrived a split-second too late and buried his axe in the man's shin and both went down, the boy buried beneath the greater man's bulk.

The Redbeard's wits were slow to return, shock and injury having rendered him immobile for a moment, but he grabbed the other man's hair, ready to pound him to death with his bare fists, because there was no other weapon within reach.

He also was too late.

Wulf was lying flat and unmoving, while the bandit squirmed away, hands going to the knife sticking out of his neck.

Just as quickly as it had begun the fight was over.

"Holmar!" the Redbeard heard Bronn yell. "Are you alright!?"

"No thanks to you," Holmar replied and lay back, drenched in blood and covered in foliage and bits of his enemy to stare up at the sky. It really was the most beautiful thing he had seen. His head throbbed in time with the sound of nearing steps.

The last bandit was still writhing on the ground and clawing at the knife stuck in his throat until Bronn put him out of his misery with a well-placed blow. Wulf gingerly rolled to his knees and crawled closer and pulled the knife out of the corpse's neck and stood up wobbly, looking forlorn and clutching the bloody weapon in a white-knuckled death grip.

oooo

Later, when the bandits were dead and all wounds had been seen to, they were again sitting inside the wagon. Sliveig was asleep, having downed a healing potion, Holmar's head was bandaged and Wulf was wrapped in Bronn's warm fur cloak, to stop his shaking.

"Were these the first men you killed?" the burly warrior asked, in a kind voice that contrasted with his otherwise rough appearance and demeanour.

Wulf nodded in answer and drew the cloak tighter around himself with one hand and reached out with the other when Holmar handed him a mug.

"Drink," the Nord said simply.

The boy was visibly shocked, but did not cry, nor did he throw up, which was more than the Redbeard could say of his first kill.

"First time's always bad," Sven agreed, rubbing ceaselessly at his purple and swollen arm.

"Killing ain't as pretty as songs and stories make it sound," Holmar sighed. "Ya did the right thing, though. Sometimes there is no choice."

"Fusozay Var Dar", Wulf whispered into the cup and drained its contents with one gulp befitting any true Nord. The others might not understand the strange words, but the grimace that appeared on the boy's face was one they knew well and Bronn pounded him on the back until the youth stopped coughing.

"Here, we got something' for ya," Bronn pitched in, distracting the youth from the recent bloodshed.

Holmar smiled at the child's look of wonder. "You helped with killing those scum, you get to loot them," he declared and handed him a heavy, thick tome bound in rich leather with a decorative silver clasp to hold it closed. Nobody wanted a book, and an empty one at that. What good was it anyway for a bunch of illiterate guards?

Wulf was practically bouncing on the spot the next day to show his plunder to the elderly merchant.

"This is vellum," Rislav said, stroking one of the pages with his fingers.

"He did his part, we thought it was only fair we share the spoils with him," Sven sniggered. _He_ had a new raincoat, gloves, a whetstone, a phial of weapon oil and a pouch of pipe weed. The merchant shook his head. They had obviously thrown the trash none of them wanted at the boy, who was overjoyed with the gift.

"That's very generous of you," Rislav agreed, not fooled by their act of kindness for one second. "Since this book is probably worth more than everything the four of you have- ," the old man chuckled and savoured the long looks on his friends' faces.

"Are you bloody joking?" Sliveig moaned, voicing all their thoughts exactly.

" -Together," Rislav finished, seemingly oblivious to the groans behind him. Served the greedy bunch right for trying to be clever.

It was times like these when Holmar regretted being a Nord and abiding by a strict code of honour when it came to the distribution of goods amongst the guards.

_Especially_ when young Wulf turned around, struck out his tongue at them and blew a rude noise.

oooo

"Do you know your letters, boy?" Rislav asked out of the blue one afternoon several days later.

"No."

In that moment the merchant felled a decision that would change a man's life forever. The boy was not stupid. Uneducated yes, but not dumb. The fact that he already fluently spoke three languages was proof of it. Rislav already barely saw a thing, but if he had somebody to take care of his ledgers, somebody who could read and write his life would be so much easier. None of his guards was of any use in that regard and he did not want to hire a scribe. But he had a willing helper, one he only needed to each. The merchant began to do so by drawing letters and little pictures next to them to help Wulf remember what they meant.

Once the boy had it memorized, he wrote the first short, simple sentence. "Now read it," the elderly merchant encouraged.

He got a scathing look in return and a tart reply of "I can't read."

Rislav waved away the boy's protests. "Read the signs," he told him. "One after the other. What _sounds_ do they make?"

"H – O –L – M – A –R", Wulf recited after some thought.

The merchant sighed, but patiently he ordered "Again, and faster."

"H-O-L-M-A-R. Holmar." Wonder was etched upon the boy's face the moment he finally understood.

Rislav smiled, pleased with his pupil's success. "And now the entire sentence."

"Holmar likes ale and wenches," Wulf said with a brief glimpse at the book and a cheeky smile.

"That's _not_ what's written here," Rislav sighed. Maybe this wouldn't be as easy after all.

"It's still true," Wulf protested.

"Aye," the Redbeard agreed good-naturedly.

Rislav sighed heavily again. Those two deserved each other. But once the boy understood the theory of reading, teaching him became a lot easier. He practically devoured every piece of script the merchant had to offer, reading them out loud at first and growing silent as he improved with practice. Afterwards Rislav taught Wulfryk the principles of penmanship and already his mind turned to basics of calculus that the lad would have to learn afterwards, if he was ever to make any sense of the ledgers and accounts.

"Different languages use different signs," the old man explained one evening. "The principle is the same. You could even invent your own script if you wanted to keep your writing a secret. It's not very difficult, but most codes can be broken by a clever mind."

It was to be one of their last lessons on that topic, as the others were staking a claim to participating in the boy's training. The sword that had belonged to his father was old and had seen much use, but it was in a pristine condition, as was the knife he carried.

Holmar now owed a life-debt to the boy, a serious thing for any self-respecting Nord. He would repay it over time teaching him everything he knew about swordsmanship and staying alive. Wulf was his protégée now.

He didn't know any techniques, but he was good at anticipating a person's next move, a skill that must have come from all the time he spent simply observing the people round him. With time and proper instruction he would make a terrific warrior. It was easy to learn the moves, but it was that sense that truly made an accomplished fighter.

The Redbeard began by teaching the boy the moves of hand to hand combat, brawling and wielding the knife, since he still had to grow into the sword. Wulfryk was resourceful, stubborn and gritty; he had proven as much already. There was one important, life-saving lesson left, one that could not be stressed enough. Halmar went down on one knee in front of his pupil, his hand lying atop the boy's shoulder.

"If ya can't win in an honest fight, lad you can always– "

"Kick 'em in the balls?" Wulf asked with an innocent grin.

Sliveig burst out laughing. "We're keeping this one, alright. When you're done with him, Holmar, send him over. He's young yet; you can't expect him to fight like a man grown. I can show him a few tricks."

"He should learn how to shoot," Sven complained while Bronn muttered something about axes and how the boy was too scrawny to properly swing a two handed one.

Somewhere along the way, somehow, Wulf had found a family. A ragtag band of mercenary misfits and an old, half-blind merchant, but it was the closest he had ever had to one.

For the next four years they journeyed together. Or rather, Wulfryk stayed with the old man Rislav and whoever hired on the caravan. Holmar died a year later and Bronn took over Wulf's training, until he left the mercenary life behind entirely to settle down with a girl he had met during their travels.

Without another place to go, Wulf stayed. And when he was the only one left, when there was no more Sliveig and no Sven and many others who had enriched his life with their friendship for a while, when the world was one kind merchant poorer, he set out in search of his own fortune.

Destiny awaited.


	3. EPILOGUE

Wulf travelled, just as he had once promised to do. Thirteen years after he set out on his own for the second time in his life he had been many things; a thief, a guard, a killer, a lover and a friend. And many more, some of which he admitted to without shame, and others that nobody knew of save for himself. A few deeds he could boast of and many he had to keep quiet about and a few he did not let his mind wander to – not voluntarily, and not without a great deal of alcohol.

One thing he never forgot though, and that was something his furry childhood friend had told him.

_"You should go to Elsweyr," _Ra'Jira had said_. _ "_The White Paws would welcome you. You'd fit right in_."

It was time to see how much truth those words contained. Wulf refilled his water canteen, wrapped his catch up and stored it away before shouldering his pack. Another two hours of walk awaited him if his guide was not mistaken and if he was, then there were bigger problems the Nord had to worry about than one broken promise from over a decade ago.

It had not been easy getting direction to the Red Rock Desert, and even more difficult getting somebody to show him the way, but a small, almost human-like Khajiit knew of the White Paws and for the right pay he had been willing to be Wulf's guide through this unforgiving land.

They set out early, because here the sun rose quickly and shone down without mercy throughout the whole day. Wulfryk had learned to keep his head wrapped in a wet cloth to avoid getting sunstroke and after several weeks of travel and some painful burns his skin turned a rich brown, he could have passed for half a Redguard.

The valley he had been looking for opened up before him seemingly out of nowhere. Wulf could have sworn there was nothing but rocks around him for miles around, but suddenly there was a deep gorge and in the shadow of the high canyon walls the blue band of a river was visible and around it the lush green of plants. How anything could grow in this place was beyond him, but there were terraces overflowing with crops on both sides of the cliff and from where he stood he could feel cool air wafting upwards. A slight breeze was like a blessing in the desert where the air was stagnant, full of dust and stiflingly hot.

Wulf breathed in deeply the scents of life around him, because he definitely could smell cooking and it made his stomach growl. He paid his guide and the cat-man quickly took his leave, not wanting to enter the clan's territory, because 'it was complicated', as he put it.

The Nord did not wait for any doubts to assert themselves, but set out to descend a narrow path that led steadily downwards. He was being watched, he knew, but only after a while did a band of Khajiit warriors approach him. They were curious and obviously apprehensive about his presence, but not outright hostile and he greeted them in Ta'agra to their visible relief and delight.

Wulf knew enough of the language from conversing with travelling Khajiit and those usually were free with sharing their knowledge after a friendship had been struck up. He did not hold back telling them why he was here, about his invitation and his old friend from Bruma.

The leader listened with perked ears and finally nodded his agreement to accompany Wulf to the bottom, where he would have to wait until the matriarch deigned to see him and confirm his story.

"Bandits often make our lives difficult," the Khajiit explained their situation. "The Red Rock Desert does not give much to live. It is easier to take from others than to till this barren earth. Thus, we are very protective of our clan, and our mother more so."

"Can you take something to her?" Wulf asked the warrior and carefully, not wanting to startle anybody with sudden movement, he pulled his knife from his back and handed it hilt-first to the cat-man. "It might speed things up."

The Khajiit appraised it with keen, dark yellow eyes. "A fine blade. En'Sharo will do as you ask," the warrior finally decided. "Shall I pass on your name?"

"No." Wulf grinned. "You wouldn't know how to pronounce it anyway."

His escort laughed, delighted at the flash of wit and Wulf was allowed to cool his feet in the river whilst waiting for En'Sharo to return.

oooo

Ri'Jira woke at the soft sound of claws against rock, the Khajiit equivalent of knocking. She called out to 'enter', hoping that it was not another raid from the north.

"There is a man here who wishes to see you," En'Sharo announced without greeting or apology, but as her eldest child he was excused from any formalities.

"A man?" There was nothing for men here and none had visited these parts of Elsweyr recently. "What does he look like?" she asked, rising and stretching elegantly.

"Like all men," En'Sharo retorted, but relented under his matriarch's sharp gaze. "Black mane," he recounted what little he could remember of the foreigner "Blue eyes. Whiskers."

"Beard," Ri'Jira rectified absentmindedly and felt her heart speed up with excitement. When the other Khajiit presented her with a familiar knife, there was no doubt left about the stranger's identity.

oooo

"You have grown," the matriarch greeted her friend while he stood from the boulder he had been sitting on. The boy had been tall for his age, but smaller than her. The man had over a foot on the Khajiit and probably weighted more than twice as much as she did and he carried himself like a trained warrior, not a thieving street urchin.

They did not know each other after all this time, but there were fond memories on both sides and Wulf 's smile was familiar, not having changed in years. "Hello, Ra'Jira," the Nord greeted and unwrapped something from his pack that made the cat-woman's nose twitch. "I brought us some fish."

"Ra'Jira is Ri'Jira now," the Khajiit corrected with a feline grin of her own. "Your manners have improved, Young Wolf," she said, deliberately mispronouncing his name as she had done on their first meeting.

She noticed the circle of curious onlookers gathering around them and spread her arms. "Szarij doha'jiit," she called out so that everybody nearby could hear her and with a courteous bow of her head she announced "As the matriarch of the White Paws, this one bids you welcome!"

oooo

It took no more than that for Wulf to become a member of the clan. He was given a place of his own to stay and everybody welcomed him warmly after the matriarch had spoken for him.

Living in Elsweyr was strange, more so than in any other country he had been in, with the exception of Black Marsh maybe. It took him a while to get to know all customs and his blunderings provided a great deal of entertainment for the cat-people, some who had never seen a human before.

The Khajiit slept through the day, but once the sun set, the valley came to life and its inhabitants gathered to engage in social activities. Cicada chirred loudly in the greenery and small, colourful lampions hung from the branches. The air was rife with scents of exotic spices and the sounds of the desert, and the sky was as clear and the stars as bright as nowhere else.

It was easy to understand why the religion of this folk was centred around the orbs, when the moons appeared not only huge, but also close enough to touch, if only one stretched far enough. Wulf knew of their beliefs and he respected them, even if the very concept was strange to him.

Odd was also the modesty of the cat-people; exposing fur on a torso was deemed both unsightly and offensive. They clad themselves in brightly coloured _budi, _shawls, and _shi'arii, _togas, from a silken, flimsy material that did not actually cover anything. Wulf had a very long discussion with some elderly Khajiit whether chest hair counted as 'body fur'.

Furthermore, the Khajiit did not understand property as Men or Mer did. A few things were personal belongings and off limits to others, such as a warrior's weapons and anything a worn on a person. Wulf learned that this was the reason Khajiit were so fond of jewellery, because whilst snatching a coin pouch was fair game, those items were 'untouchables', and their taking away was considered very rude. But most things were shared, stolen, snatched away and stolen back. Everybody just walked off with what they needed and it became theirs and when somebody else needed it, they took it back.

Wulf spent many hours cursing and chasing after 'lost' belongings before he finally gave up and accepted their disappearance. Strangely, with the exception of his feather quills that went missing on a regular basis, every object returned to him at some point.

Homes were no boundaries. The Nord woke up a couple of times to several uninvited Khajiit sitting around his table and talking, or cooking or simply lounging on the pillows in a Moon Sugar-induced daze.

The food was sweet and spicy, the main dishes being cake and pudding, sugar-meats and fondue, everything seasoned liberally with Moon Sugar. The sugar came from canes that were cultivated in the Tenmar jungles in southern Elsweyr that was much more civilized and wealthy than the wild, paltry north.

There, it became evident how ancient the culture was and the ruins of hundreds of cities stood testimony to a time of long-lost glory. Almost all had been buried beneath sand or swallowed by the jungle and Wulf had visited many, wondering at their erstwhile splendour.

When he returned, the Nord participated in games of stealth and pickpocketing, which was an art and a fun pastime entertainment and not a crime, as it was everywhere else. He put his newly learned abilities of stalking to the test when he went hunting with En'Sharo, Ri'Jira's son. Wulf trained and fought with the warriors, studying the basics of the Whispering Fang and the Rawlith Khaj, the combat of empty hands. Claws were a definite advantage, but not a necessity as he proved one day.

"Come here, kitty, kitty, kitty," Wulf taunted one of his adversaries who hissed back with his ears flattened and though it earned the Nord a nasty scratch on the thigh, in the next attack he was able to pick the leaping Khajiit out of the air by the skin on his neck.

"This is most embarrassing," the warrior lamented with an unhappy twitch of his tail and Wulf made it up to him by hosting a huge party with free drink and inevitably half of the clan came to join in the carousing.

He was happy. He loved this extraordinary, untamed country and his friends of whom there were more than he could keep track of.

And yet, Wulf became twitchy as more time passed, he took to wandering the desert alone at night and wondered what lay in the distance beyond his sight.

oooo

"What troubles you?" Ri'Jira asked her friend when it became obvious that he was upset over something.

Wulf had lived two years with the clan, or rather it had been two years since he had arrived. He had journeyed to the south of Elsweyr and to Hammerfell, and it had stilled his wanderlust for a while. But it always came back, the urge to move on. There was a great deal of the world out there that he had not yet seen and it beckoned to him. He was destined to be a vagabond, drawn to the endless road as a moth was to flame and not able to resist whatever it was that drove him.

"You are leaving," Ri'Jira remarked, perceptive as ever. He did not think there had ever been a person alive who could read him as easily as she did. Wulf had invested a great amount of time and energy in becoming a master at not giving anything away – if he did not want to.

It was easier to agree than it would have been to approach her with goodbyes after all she had done for him and the welcome he had received from her and her people. "Yeah," Wulf sighed with a melancholic smile.

She had been wrong, the Khajiit realized. He was not leaving. He had already left. "Where to?" Ri'Jira enquired.

"Skyrim."

"Your home." If anybody could empathize, it was her. The Khajiit knew what it was to long for home after having spent much time abroad. Ri'Jira had experienced the ache in the heart and she knew that he did not belong here, in the south with its deserts of rock and warm sands, but in the north where his road would lead him through snows bitter cold.

"Raj var zazij daeneri va." _All is as it should be_.

"Yeah," Wulf chuckled, glad that even without words there was an understanding between them.

"I'm going home."

* * *

**AN:** Thank you all for reading.

I hope you enjoyed this short story. There may be others, given time.

The Blacktyde Chronicles now continue with part three: '**High Tide**'.


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